The Heart of Fire

by Michael J. Ward

  870

  The mist has started to recede, revealing the full scale of the devastation. As you suspected, there is little left of the tower save for the rubble-strewn islands dotting the lava shelf.

  Above you a huge chunk has been ripped out of the rock, where the tower collided with the dwarven outcropping. Thankfully, a section of the ledge remains intact, winding up to the dark building perched on its summit. You flex your wings, hoping they are strong enough to carry you and Virgil back to the ledge.

  You will need to take a speed test :

  Speed

  Wing and a prayer

  18

  If you are successful, turn to 768. Otherwise, turn to 881.

  871

  Boss monster: The traitors’ tower

  ‘And so they shall fall to darkness, and never rise again’ Jenlar Cornelius

  The walls weep with blood. It is everywhere, coating the sticky flesh that clings to every inch of stone. The air reeks with it – an over-powering metallic stench that sickens your stomach. But the grotesqueness of your surroundings pales in comparison to the demons that now assault you. Some may have been dwarves once, before they were twisted by the dark magics of this place. Others are little more than slabs of flesh, bristling with teeth and claws.

  They are the only thing that stands between you and Cernos. The demon is only metres away. One hand grips the heart of fire, its heat washing out in waves. The other moves across a runed door, probing its magical defences. Avian lies crumpled at the demon’s feet. It is impossible to tell if he is alive or dead – the remnants of his dented armour hang off his white tunic and breeches, now dirt-spattered like the rest of him.

  So close . . . if not for the infuriating mass of blood-soaked creatures that stand in your way. Angrily, you hack and slash at the slick bodies. With Cernos now in sight, they seem insignificant – merely a distraction. You need to reach him . . . reach the heart that will give you your freedom – a cure for the curse.

  But the demons’ numbers seem endless. As soon as one is cut down, there is another to take its place, gibbering and clawing to reach you. An axe-shaped appendage flies out of the chaos, biting into your shoulder. Roaring with pain, you sever the demon’s limb, using your return swing to scythe through its gore-soaked body, taking several more of the frenzied horde with it.

  At the corner of your vision, a white hot light blazes through the sea of bodies. It is accompanied by the high-pitched screams of dying demons. The inscribed blades shred through the dark host as if they were stalks of corn, each deliberate cut and thrust sending crimson sprays showering across the hall. And at the centre of this maelstrom is Virgil. His scowling visage is bathed in the light of his holy inscriptions. It is difficult to distinguish the man from the demons, such is the vehemence etched into his face.

  A hot stab of pain. A bone sword has pierced straight through your thigh, coming out the other side. Another blow knocks you sideways. Blood squelches underfoot as you struggle to keep your balance. A demon leaps onto your back, its teeth snapping at your neck. You spin, cracking open your wings to send it flailing back into the mob. The pain has gone, as it always does – your demon blood healing the wounds. But in its place comes the rage . . . overpowering. Intoxicating. Impossible to resist.

  Snarling, you thrust your weapon into a demon’s snapping mouth. Its body twists away, taking the weapon with it. Another creature leaps for you, but you manage to deflect them with your arm, using your spines to drive them back.

  Desperately, you drag the sword from your thigh, intending to use it as a substitute – but it is so slick with gore that it slips from your fingers. Instead you are forced to use your claws and spines, slashing and raking at the gaunt, red bodies – your bestial snarls mingling with their own.

  You don’t remember those final minutes – or perhaps even hours – of the battle. When the blind rage subsides, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, you find yourself surrounded by bodies. Hundreds of them, scattered in piles. You struggle to your feet, limbs dragging like leaden weights. There is something moving near the far wall – a thin, red demon. It is struggling to pull itself free from the carnage. You retrieve your weapons, then stumble towards it. Death would be a mercy, even for these abominations.

  But when the head turns, you gasp as you see it is Virgil. His coat has been ripped to shreds, hanging in tatters from his sinewy body. His patch has been pulled away, exposing the dark hollow of his missing eye. Red grime covers him from head to foot, plastering his hair to his scalp.

  He pulls himself to the wall and rests his back against it, his expression pained. ‘It will never end,’ he grunts, his voice raw and hoarse. ‘This will never end.’

  You look to the runed door. It stands closed, with no sign of Cernos or Avian. They must have passed through, heading deeper into the palace. When you turn back to Virgil, you see that he is weeping. Only then do you notice that his right hand is missing, the bloody stump pressed tight to his chest. ‘It’s over for me . . .. It’s over.’

  You start to speak, but the words die quickly. The silence lengthens.

  Virgil glares up at you, scowling through his tears. ‘I have hunted demons all my life. I know them better than anybody. And what good has it ever done me? I even watched my wife . . . my daughter . . .’ He clenches his teeth, their bright gold darkened by blood. ‘What hope is there . . . for this world, when there is so much . . . so many . . . evils.’ He rests his head against the wall.

  ‘There will always be good men, Virgil. Crusaders like yourself.’ You crouch to retrieve his hat, brushing the flecks of demon from its brim.

  ‘Good men,’ hisses Virgil. He snorts with amusement. ‘I’m no good man. I lied to you, demon. I lied to you.’

  You meet his gaze.

  ‘There is no cure for your malady. Modoc can’t change what you have become. The demon blood . . . there is no cure. Only . . . death.’

  The words cut deeper than any demon’s blade; a wound that your blood can never heal.

  ‘No . . .’ Your stomach lurches, your chest tightening with a wave of panic and fear. No cure.

  You say the words to yourself, as if struggling to understand the enormity of their meaning.

  ‘I needed you . . . to track Cernos . . . I needed you to help me.’ Virgil winces, shifting his weight to the other shoulder. ‘For what’s it worth . . . I’m sorry.’

  You blink back tears. Words seem meaningless now. Hope seems meaningless now. All you have ever wanted is your freedom – to escape the past, the inquisition, this demon curse . . . But now you know that you can never be free. I have become a monster.

  You glare at the witchfinder, wanting to feel anger. Hate. Betrayal. Instead, there is only a chill emptiness. I am a demon. That is my fate.

  You offer him the hat.

  ‘You keep it,’ he smiles wanly. ‘I think its luck finally wore out. . .’

  If you wish, you may now take:

  Puritan’s peak

  (head)

  +2 speed +2 armour

  Ability: charm, heal

  You look back to the runed door. Ragnarok must be nearby – the dark blade that once belonged to Barahar. If Cernos takes the sword, then he will have the means of wreaking vengeance and destruction on the world – delivering the same misery and horror that has destroyed Tartarus and left the Lamuri cities forever cursed.

  ‘Kill Cernos . . .’ whispers Virgil, as if reading your thoughts. ‘Just promise me you’ll do that.’ His breath rattles in the silence.

  You are already headed for the door, splashing through the bloody mire. Four runes have been carved across its face, each set within a square panel. Distracted by the battle, you did not see what Cernos did to open the door. You push against the heavy stone, but it doesn’t budge. Clearly, you will need to press one or more of the panels to unlock some hidden mechanism.

  Will you:

  Press the hammer rune? — 886

  Press the fire rune? — 710
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br />   Press the crescent rune? — 774

  Press the shield rune? — 894

  872

  As you cross the courtyard, Virgil spots something amongst the rubble. He calls a halt, crouching down next to a jagged piece of rock. Blood has been smeared across it.

  ‘What is it?’ You notice that there is a deliberate pattern to the stain. ‘Another blood ritual?’

  Virgil shakes his head. ‘This is Avian’s mark. A sign he’s still alive.’

  Your eyes quickly scan the rubble, half-expecting to see a body – or perhaps Cernos, lying in wait. Instead you spot a further trail of blood, winding through the ash and grime. It leads to a stepped walkway, which spirals up to the last tier of the dwarven city.

  Angrily, Virgil scuffs the mark into the dirt. ‘He knew this place would be the end of him. He knew and still he came . . .’

  You turn in surprise. ‘He is a prophet?’

  Virgil snorts. ‘Hardly. His fate was foretold by another. Jenlar Cornelius. A member of our order. Jenlar saw many deaths for Avian, but each one he has cheated. This one, I am starting to wonder. . .’

  You frown. ‘You mean the visions can be wrong?’

  ‘Right, wrong. I don’t pretend to know the way of it.’

  ‘But Durnhollow . . . what I saw . . .’

  He notes your look of bewilderment. ‘Look, I live by my wits and my blades. If we’re talking destiny now . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Avian once told me that destiny was for fools and dreamers. I think he was right. We all have a choice.’

  You look past his shoulder to the dark sprawl of the city. Dawn has started to creep over the crater’s edge, steadily dressing the towers and minarets in silvery threads of light. For the briefest of moments it is as if time has flowed backwards, and you are gazing upon the true majesty of Tartarus as it once was, all of those thousands of years ago.

  You lower your head with a sigh. ‘I saw my own death, here – at the foot of the mountain. Cernos will take Ragnarok. We will fail to stop him.’

  Virgil rises to stand at your side. ‘Then we must cling to a fool’s hope. One of us has to change the future.’ (Return to the quest map to continue your journey.)

  873

  For defeating Krakatoa, you may now help yourself to one of the following special items:

  Avalanche

  Stone of disillusion

  Kraka’s crown

  (main hand: staff)

  (left hand: spell book)

  (head)

  +2 speed +6 magic

  +3 speed +5 magic

  +2 speed +5 magic

  Ability: shatter

  Ability: confound

  Ability: command

  When you have made your decision, turn to 651 if you still need to choose rewards, or 545 to continue.

  874

  Quest: The Crematorium

  (NOTE: You must have completed the orange quest The Abussos before you can access this location.)

  Bile splatters against the wall, eating through the rock in a hissing cloud of steam. You grab Virgil and push him ahead, aware that the giant centipede is closing in fast. The cavern rings with the endless tapping of its many chitinous legs.

  ‘I need to heal.’ Virgil staggers dizzily. He cradles his burnt arm to his chest, the shreds of cloth mingling with the blood and seared flesh.

  ‘Keep going!’ you urge, shoving him forward. ‘We’ll make it!’

  Across the cave, a row of stalagmites block the face of the wall. They spear upwards to meet the stalactites hanging down from the ceiling, together forming a colonnade of crystal-glowing rock. A natural barrier.

  You push Virgil between the columns. As you move to follow, you risk a look over your shoulder – and wish you hadn’t. Your vision is filled with a nightmarish mishmash of spines and mandibles. The creature shows no signs of slowing, its hundreds of legs driving it forward at an alarming speed . . .

  There is a loud crack.

  The centipede’s spiked head smashes into the columns, crumpling through the stone and filling the air with dust. You reel behind Virgil, who is already half-running and half-stumbling along the makeshift corridor. Ahead you spy a narrow opening in the wall, little more than a jagged crevice. The witchfinder has also seen it, quickening his pace. Behind you the giant monster shrieks with rage, knocking through the columns like a ball through skittles.

  Just as the ensuing dust cloud is about to engulf you, your hands find the opening. Cloth and scales rip on the gnarled rock as you push yourself into the claustrophobic space. A second later and the black body of the insect hurtles past, its immensity filling your narrow view with shell and spines. Then it is gone, skittering away with an angry screech.

  The crevice brings you out into another cavern, lit by pillars of multi-coloured crystals. Virgil is gasping for breath as he struggles one-handed to pull a gourd from his coat.

  ‘Need . . . tonic.’ He lifts the gourd to his mouth, clamping his gold teeth around the cork and yanking it free. You glance down at his burnt arm, wincing at the sight of the terrible wound. For once, the injury was not the work of demons, but Virgil’s own pistol – the heated powder having exploded in its chamber.

  He starts to raise the gourd to his lips, then gives a dismissive grunt. ‘Ah, to Allam with it.’ He tips the contents over his ravaged arm. The flesh smokes and sizzles, dragging a sobbing cry from his cracked lips. He staggers back as the skin continues to cauterise, becoming an ugly stretch of scarred tissue. ‘Never did like taking medicine,’ he gasps between gritted teeth.

  ‘At least we lost the bug.’ You look back towards the crevice, wondering if the creature will try and pummel its way through. Since first encountering the oversized centipede, it has proved a persistent foe, chasing you through nearly a mile of tunnels and caves.

  ‘It will find us again, have no doubt.’ Virgil rests his back against the wall, clenching and unclenching his maimed hand. ‘Let’s just be grateful for this reprieve.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too settled . . .’

  Virgil looks up, following your gaze.

  Carved into the opposite wall is a colossal throne of black obsidian – and seated on it is a stone giant, its body patched with shards of bright-glowing crystal.

  The witchfinder slides a pistol from his coat. When he catches your look he returns a guilty smile. ‘Don’t worry. It’s my last one. Explosions are rare, mostly. . .’

  Before you can deliver a reprimand, you hear a dull rumbling coming from the far wall. The throne is shaking, releasing thick curtains of stone and dust.

  ‘That doesn’t look good,’ you grimace.

  Through the thickening haze, you can make out movement – the giant’s hands are pushing down on the throne, heaving its immense body forward. Then, with a grating sigh, the giant rises up, its gemencrusted crown scraping the cavernous ceiling, nearly a hundred feet above you.

  The witchfinder glances at his pistol. ‘We’re gonna need a bigger gun.’

  Slowly, the giant’s head tilts forward, angling its stone gaze at the floor of the cave. ‘Tourmalus protect. Tourmalus obey.’ The voice seems to come from everywhere at once, amplified by the smooth, curved walls of the chamber.

  Virgil moves to your side, grunting with pain as he draws his sword from its scabbard. You follow his lead, your enchanted weapons spinning into your hands. It is time to fight:

  Special abilities

  Blue agate: At the end of every combat round, each crystal cluster is healed for 4 health. This cannot take each crystal above their starting health. (Once a cluster is reduced to zero health, it can no longer heal.)

  Red calcite: Tourmalus’ attacks have the piercing ability, ignoring your armour.

  Dark citrine: Tourmalus has a speed of 14 (this is reduced to 12 once the citrine is destroyed).

  Body of crystal: The crystal clusters are immune to bleed, disease, lightning and venom.

  In this combat you roll against Tourmalus’ speed. If you win a combat round, you
can choose to apply your damage to one of the golem’s crystal clusters. When a cluster is reduced to zero health, its ability no longer applies. You must destroy all three clusters to defeat the golem.

  If you manage to overcome this ancient guardian, turn to 893.

  875

  You enter a vaulted hall of smooth black stone. The walls have been draped with faded banners, each one carrying a different symbol – a flame, a mountain, an axe, a hammer. You wonder if they refer to gods or spirits, or perhaps different factions that once existed within the city. A row of stone pews form a silent procession down the centre of the hall, their way illuminated by the iron braziers suspended from the ceiling.

  The entire left-side of the chamber has caved in, leaving nothing but rubble. To the right, in the direction the pews are facing, there is a chimney shaft descending from the ceiling. At its base the shaft opens out into an octagonal font of glowing black coals, surrounded by magical runes. The only visible exit is a set of stairs either side of the chimney, leading up to a railed balcony.

  You move to inspect the font, noticing that there is a black metal dish resting on the coals. Above it, carved into the chimney shaft, is an image of a phoenix, rising up out of a wall of flame.

  If you have the bronze urn and wish to sprinkle the ashes onto the plate, turn to 784. Otherwise, you decide to head up the stairs, turn to 775.

  876

  Congratulations! You have created the following item:

  Self-published grimoire

  (left hand: spell book)

  +2 speed +3 magic

  Ability: trickster

  If you wish to create a different spell book, you can start the process again (turn to 850). Otherwise, you may now leave the chamber and continue your journey. Turn to 866.